Something in Atroth’s tone catches my attention. I glance from him to Kyol, then from Kyol to Radath. Kyol’s here. Kyol’s alive. If Atroth intends to kill him, why the hell is he taking so long? Why didn’t he order Radath to kill Kyol on sight?
The only plausible answer is that Atroth doesn’t want to kill him. He’s searching for a reason to forgive his sword-master. If Kyol plays this right, he might be able to survive.
Radath mutters something under his breath, then, more clearly, says, “My lord, this has gone on far too long. We should have executed him before. We should execute him now.”
Atroth sits back in his throne, taps his fingers on the sleek, silver armrest. “He’s my friend, Radath.”
“He’s a traitor. He has been for a while. We’ve only discovered his deceit recently, but he’s been working against me, against us, for years. If he hadn’t opposed every plan I had, we could have ended this war a thousand times over. You cannot trust—”
Atroth holds up a hand. “Kyol, don’t you see she doesn’t care about you? Maybe she never has.”
I keep my mouth shut because he might be able to survive this, but my heart’s pumping adrenaline through my veins and my mind is scrambling for an idea, some spark of enlightenment that might save both our lives.
“If she lives, she’ll aid the remnants of the rebellion,” Atroth continues. “If we destroy it today, the next false-blood will find her. I won’t allow her to hunt down my officers. You can give her a quick death, Kyol.”
Kyol’s gaze doesn’t waver from the king. I swallow, trying to wet my throat. I need to tell him it’s okay, there’s no reason for us both to die, but I’m too damn scared to force the words out.
“I’m willing to forgive you if you do this,” Atroth says. “Everything can go back to the way it was.” He draws a dagger from his belt, holds it out toward his sword-master.
“Did you ever love me?”
Kyol’s words are so soft I barely hear them. I certainly have a hard time comprehending them. He’s listening to Atroth, doubting how I felt? I waited for him—for ten years, I waited. Does he think that’s normal behavior for a human? I can’t tell. His mask is in place. There’s not a glimmer of emotion in his silver eyes.
“Take the dagger,” Atroth urges, sounding sympathetic.
“Did you?” Kyol demands, facing me squarely. “Or did you use me, McKenzie? Did you meet Jorreb before he abducted you?”
It feels as if the In-Between steals my breath away. My throat is raw when I manage to swallow. I shouldn’t have to deny his accusations. He should know me better than this.
“Kyol,” Atroth says again.
“I want to know,” he says. “I want her to tell me.”
“I . . .”
“They’re stalling.” Radath draws his sword. “My lord, it’s foolish to let him live one moment more.”
Kyol’s expression doesn’t change, the muscles in his face don’t twitch at all except when he blinks, but something in that one action is more a wince than an involuntary movement. He is stalling.
Atroth sighs. “You’ve sealed your fate, Taltrayn. Kneel.”
“I’m sorry, kaesha.”
Radath walks forward. My heart thumps when he raises his sword and . . .
No, I can’t watch Kyol die.
Time blurs. My thoughts tangle. The Realm grows small and distant and I’m no longer standing where I was. I’ve leapt onto Radath’s back. I’ve torn the piece of shrapnel from my arm. I’ve drawn it across the lord general’s throat.
The metal is small, blood-soaked. My grip isn’t firm enough to really slice, so I bring it around again—
Radath grabs my wrist and twists. Something cracks. Then something slams into my face.
“McKenzie!”
Two people, three, maybe a dozen scream my name. I can’t separate the voices or the shouts or the whistles of flying arrows.
Blood drips from my face, splatters on the floor beside a leather boot, a leather boot that disappears. At first, I think my vision’s failing. Then the noise filling the throne room registers.
“McKenzie!”
I recognize Aren’s voice this time. He made it through the Sidhe Tol. He’s just inside the throne room, hiding behind the body of a Court fae. Arrows bounce off the fae’s jaedric armor, but puncture his throat and arms. When he vanishes into the ether, Aren dives back out the doors.
Half the fae follow him; the other half . . .
The other half target Kyol, who’s managed to free himself from the ropes binding him. He holds a dagger—the one Atroth offered him moments before—to the king’s throat. The muscles in Kyol’s arm quiver, and my heart breaks at the bleakness in his eyes.
“Taltrayn,” Radath grinds out, holding a hand to his bleeding neck. The lord general doesn’t move, though. He doesn’t have to, not with Micid moving . . . somewhere.
I throw myself across the floor, searching for the ther’rothi. My elbow hits something. I swing my arm around, ensnaring what have to be Micid’s legs. He stumbles, falls.
I scream when pain explodes through my injured wrist, but shouts from the other end of the throne room drown out my cry.
Somehow, I’m underneath a still-invisible Micid. I lock my arms around what I think is his waist, then wrap my legs around, too, as a fae screams behind me. The sound of metal striking metal becomes a steady percussion. I catch a brief glimpse of Aren and a dozen rebels fighting Court fae.
I lose sight of him, and I can’t see Kyol because Radath’s in the way. I can’t help either of them. All I can do is hang on to Micid. Hang on while he strangles me.
Black shadows creep in from the corners of my vision. My body tingles, demanding that I unlock my arms from around Micid and pull his hands from around my neck, but still I hold on. If I let him go, I’m dead. Aren and Kyol and the rest of the rebels are dead. No one will see Micid’s attack.
I can’t let go.
I can’t . . . let go.
I can’t . . .
Something wet spills across my chest. Air snakes inside my lungs, just enough to allow me the strength to blindly swing my fist. It’s no use, though. Something heavy weighs me down, stealing my breath again.
“McKenzie.”
I desperately try to shove Micid away.
“McKenzie, it’s me. It’s okay. He’s dead. The ther’rothi is dead.”
I stop struggling. Sometime later—seconds, millennia—my vision clears. Aren smoothes damp hair back from my face. He kisses me and then hugs me tight. I say nothing when my body screams in protest.
“I thought I lost you,” he says.
Edarratae warm my skin, then his magic seeps into me when he presses his fingertips to my swollen cheekbone.
I want to tell him I’m okay, but my throat refuses to work.
He glides his hands lightly down my neck. I manage a quiet moan as he heals the bruises Micid left behind. I swallow, try to sit, but only manage to roll to my side.
The fight’s not quite over, but some of the Court fae are dropping their weapons. A few of them are actually helping the rebels. Taber’s here and two or three others who I know Kyol trusts.
Kyol.
I look behind Aren to see him still standing with the dagger to Atroth’s throat. Radath . . . As I watch, Radath stalks this way, sword raised.